Favors
by keiliykuckoo
Summary: How many favors does it take Natasha Romanoff to clean her slate with the British Government?
1. The First

"I am not doing you any favors." She spat tied to the chair, her Russian accent laced with spite.

"I'm afraid you are, Miss Romanoff." The man stood too far away. He obviously knew what she was capable of. He went through a lot of trouble finding her too. She was hidden for quite some time in London. Somehow he found her.

"This chair won't hold me."

"I didn't expect it to. You're free to quit pretending I'm holding you captive."

She stood slowly showing that the ties to the chair didn't hold her. The man who tied the knots to her left look shocked and made to capture her again, but the man in front of her waved him off.

"No, no, let the Widow run." He inspected his fingernails, and Natasha began to move away from them. "That is what you're calling yourself now? Black Widow? Preys on the rich, vile men, kills them after sex."

She flinched at the accusations. Stopping, she looked up at him through her red hair. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why don't you explain it then?" He paused cocking his head to the side. She wanted to fight him. She wanted to kick his face and make his head roll to the other side. It would make her laugh, but she knew it wasn't wise. If he found her, he would have been a man who was very important, a man who could give her a lot of enemies.

He added, "The British government would love to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours." That gave her a hint at who he was. He might have been rich, but it would have been from working with the government.

The Black Widow cursed at him in Russian. She knew that she wouldn't win this battle. She made too many enemies, and now she was trying to change that. The suited man let out a laugh.

Sighing, she gave in, "What do you need?"

"I don't do babysitting." She hummed in a British accent while walking in the cold knowing that the man could hear her.

She was wearing the most ridiculous dress. A renaissance faire? Really? She died her hair blonde, a stark contrast to her normally red curls. It was straightened, a headpiece attached to her head. The dress she wore was an ugly mustard color and she felt like she couldn't move in the dress. It was period correct.

She had no way of fighting.

Natasha Romanoff was certain that the mysterious man was sending her to her death, not to "keep an eye on" some equally mysterious man named Sherlock Holmes just to clear her name with the British government. Why else would he put her in something so restricting? It was like binding her. She knew if she had to she could break out of the clothes though.

What kind of weirdo was this Sherlock Holmes anyways?

Who needed to be watched at a renaissance faire? Who went to renaissance faires? She locked down her emotions as she entered the grounds, gaining control of herself. It was like she had suddenly entered another world. Everyone was dressed in similar costumes to her own. She looked around the faire, walking around cautiously as her eyes aimed to find her target.

"Excuse me." A portly man tried to pass her. She stepped out of the way, curtsying because he bowed to her.

"I apologize."

"My, aren't you a beautiful flower?" The man grinned at her, but she knew from the description that this was not Sherlock Holmes. Her stomach sank as she began preparing herself from the trap.

Natasha gave him a sickeningly sweet smile hoping it would push him away, "Thank you, sir."

She began to walk away when the fat man asked, "Do you dance?"

Pausing mid step, she turned to look at him, "I am afraid not."

"Come!" The man chorused, "I shall teach you to dance." The man pulled her into the open area. A live band played ancient music as people did traditional dances. Being a former ballerina had its perks, and she picked up the female part easily. The man was a sloppy dancer, though she knew he was drunk. the stains on his shirt, the alcohol spilling off his breath, the glazed eyes. It wasn't hard to keep focus despite his misplaced his touch on her. She wanted to restrain him, but her eyes hovered to the rooftops trying to find a sniper. No one looked suspicious, but things weren't always as appeared. She counted the people watching. She counted the people who were near, and those not actively paying attention.

"Might I cut in?" A deep voice called from behind her. She turned, ready to rip apart her own dress in order to fight. She was so on edge she didn't realize that there was a possibility of a man who thought she needed a savior from the fat man.

There he was, standing in red with a dorky hat on his head. He looked like he was ready to be a knight in shining armor. So, she would play the part of the damsel while she looked for Holmes.

"Go find your own wench." The fat man claimed.

Natasha turned to him, "I am not a wench, I am an actual woman, and you are drunk. So thank you for the awkward dance, now leave."

The man looked upset, his face fell, and she felt no pity. He walked away, angry. She turned to the man and curtsied.

"And here I thought you were in trouble." The man in front of her laughed.

"What gave you that idea?"

"The worried looks, the sweat beginning on the back of your neck, the constant gazes around the crowd, your tensed body as he touched you." She would have been worried about his observations, but he was missing something. He was missing the reason for her worried looks, but now that she knew someone was observing her, she would hide herself better.

"Well thank you," She curtsied to him once in true renaissance fashion. He stiffly bowed, but he was watching her. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Dance?" He asked her taking her hand in his. She merely nodded while letting him lead her back into the fray of dancers. She kept alert, but didn't let her eyes leave his. He was too observant, so she kept her other senses heightened.

They didn't speak, they only danced.

He moved around her as the dance called for and she watched him letting a smile spread on her lips. She played the part of a thankful maiden perfectly. She maintained control, but neglected the mission of finding Sherlock Holmes.

Whoever he was, he didn't exist. It was a ruse to kill her, but as long as she stayed with people, they wouldn't shoot her. Not out in the open. There were children here for heaven sakes. Not that a child couldn't be part of a ruse. She was once.

Letting her mind wander to those thoughts was dangerous. She had to stay focused.

She laughed as the song ended, applauding the musicians, who then announced that they would take a break leaving the courtyard quiet of music, but loud with talking.

"Thank you," She curtsied again.

"It was my pleasure, Miss-." He left it hanging expecting her to reply. She had a cover, because she couldn't be Natasha Romanoff or Natalie Rushman. She had to be British. She had to play her part even if it was to a stranger.

"Noelle Radcliff." She answered a fake back story flooding to her head. "Might I ask who my savior is?" She smiled at him tucking her blonde hair behind her ear.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."


	2. The Second

"Sherlock?" A billion things rushed to her head, but Natasha kept her face straight not showing any emotion while focusing on him. She let her head clear taking complete control of the situation.

So the agent wasn't lying. She would be keeping an eye on Sherlock Holmes, interesting development.

He didn't blink or bat an eyelash at her questioning. She turned on her acting abilities. A shy smile with downcast eyes, she spoke flirtatiously, "Well, thank you, Sherlock Holmes." She added a lip bite for effect, but he still blinked. She wanted to roll her eyes, but she was supposed to stay with him. He wasn't the type to chase a girl, she could tell that much.

"Do you want to grab a tea or coffee or something?"

"They don't serve tea here." He stared right into her eyes.

She stepped forward, heightening her pulse, making it seem as though she wanted him now. She brought her lips to his ear. "I didn't mean here."

"Obviously," He whispered right back in her ear. He put his hand on her wrist. She felt him grabbing her pulse checking.

She narrowed her eyes at the maneuver wondering what he was up to. Then, she pulled back a little bit, putting on her flirtatious expression again. "What do you say, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why don't we go back to my place?" He offered. His demeanor didn't suggest he was lying or going to hurt her, but it didn't suggest flirting either.

A smirk plastered across her lips, Natasha batted her eyelashes not skipping a beat. "That would be wonderful."

* * *

211 Baker Street.

Sherlock pulled Natasha into the house and up the stairs. Her eyes flickered everywhere trying to take everything in and remember it: the other flats, the extra exits, how high the second landing was from the first.

The door to apartment "B" hadn't been unlocked, Sherlock forcefully pushed it open. She saw the two windows surrounding a desk, a fireplace on one side of the room, the large kitchen. The whole flat was a mess with papers, books, and a rank smell wafting from the kitchen. She tried not to make a face. Her focus was supposed to be on Sherlock, not on how messy the man kept his living space. She despised clutter.

"So, this is your flat?" Natasha began to take off the headpiece of the renaissance dress trying to keep herself loose from any extra clothes. She made it look like she was just getting comfortable.

"Can I borrow your phone?" The sudden question threw her off guard as she carefully loosened the corset trying not to pull attention to it.

"I don't have a phone."

"You don't have a phone?" He raised an eyebrow. "Everyone has a phone, why is it you don't have one?"

"It was stolen a few weeks ago." She answered still pulling at the corset bit by bit. She answered so nonchalantly as if it wasn't a big deal anymore placing the robbery perhaps a month ago.

"You didn't fight them off?"

Natasha realized how observant he really was. Her body was perfectly toned and in excellent shape. If someone stole something from her, she could easily fight them off and regain it. He must have noticed that.

"Why _would_ I? They could hurt me."

"Don't play coy, _Noelle_." He rolled his eyes.

"I don't really enjoy being insulted. So either we do this, or I'll show myself out." When he didn't answer, she turned in a huff stalking to the door like any other woman would if they didn't get what they wanted. Then she felt the forceful grip on her wrist, pulling her back. Her heart rate accelerated and without thinking, she turned and flipped him onto the cold, hard ground.

As soon as she saw him lying on the ground, her hardened face softened. Realizing her mistake, she kneeled beside him relinquishing his wrist returning to the part of flirtatious Noelle.

With a worried gasp, she grabbed at him, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It was self-defense, I swear!"

"You're good." Sherlock jumped up instantly. Slowly, Natasha stood to her regular height looking concerned. A small smirk twitched at his upper lip, "What's your real name? It can't be Noelle."

"Are you sure you're okay? Did you hit your head hard? I really am sorry." She attempted to keep up the part, but after a second of him not answering. She tried a different approach. Dropping the act slightly, Natasha shrugged, "It is my real name. Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh please." He rolled his eyes. "You're not that good at playing the victim."

"You're not that good at playing the white knight." She huffed.

It had come to this, a standoff between two strangers. She could tell he was trying to figure her out. Putting up her defense, Natasha closed off her mind to him. She didn't need anyone trying to get in there. She crossed her arms over her chest raising an eyebrow at him.

"You're good." He repeated again.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh come on, you mysteriously show up while I'm on a case, dance with the man I'm inquiring information on, and then you make me dance with you. Really, it's so obvious."

"Case?" She wondered what his occupation was, but shook off the idea embodying the attitude of Noelle again. "Listen, I went to a faire today, got felt up by a drunken man, and was promised a cup of tea by some other man- who is now berating me for being able to defend myself from robbers even though _he_ stepped in to save me from SAID DRUNK MAN!" She acted as though she was mad at him. Shouting even though her head was completely clear, and she wasn't all that mad. She let herself take a huge breath faking the need to calm down. "Listen, Sherlock, I don't know where _you_ get off making assumptions-."

"Telling the truth."

"If it was the truth, your assumptions would be right."

"So you're telling me they aren't."

"You tell me." Natasha braced her hands on her hips.

"Do me a favor," She rolled her eyes at Sherlock, sick of doing favors for people she didn't know, "and tell me why you were at the renaissance faire."

"For fun." Natasha rolled her shoulder and then shrugged.

"By yourself?"

Slightly aggravated, Natasha composed herself. She reminded herself it was a job the British government that would clear her name. She still couldn't figure out what they wanted with information on Sherlock Holmes. Though, she was staring to see what use he would be. Even when he wasn't talking, his mind continued to turn, thinking about different things. He observed things just like she did. She wondered what chaos was going on in that brain of his.

"I was trying to meet a man." It wasn't a lie. It was just hiding a little bit of the truth, and those were the perfect lies.

"Any old man or someone specific?" By the look of his face, Sherlock knew exactly who she was looking for.

"You know who."

"You're quite good."

"And so are you." She pointedly smiled. The stood circling each other in the room. She calculated her exit, but she saw him counter calculating preemptively ruining her plans. Somehow, she figured she could best him, though. She did this professionally for years, more years than she liked to count. She rarely slipped up in the field. He slipped up a few times already, but then again hadn't she as well today?

While she tried to calculate his next move, Natasha realized he blocked himself off to her. She couldn't seem to read him anymore now. Where did he learn to do that? Shocked at his ability, she almost missed the step showing that he was going to try to attack her. As soon as he lunged, she sidestepped out of the way delivering a stiff handed blow to his side. His back arched as stumble in pain to the ground. Instantly, she jumped onto his back before he could move from his sprawled out position on the floor. Pinning his arms down at his side with her knees, Natasha locked her elbow around his throat pulling his head back while his legs kicked at the floor.

She heard his throat gargle as her eyes got cloudy. She would kill him and he would never mess with her again. He would never get into her mind again, chaos no more. As he gasped for air, his feet pounded into the rug on the ground trying to fly up hit her off his back. She knew he'd be dead in a matter of seconds as she cut off all his air. Forcing his head away from his body, she would dislocate his neck and break it.

Sherlock Holmes would be dead soon and out of her hair forever.

**a/n: My apologies for this chapter being so late. My muse went missing, but I think it might be coming back. **


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